


Have a Cone

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hallucifer, Hallucinations, POV Second Person, civilian, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 05:08:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: People say it looked like murder. Someone could have took him away from you. As you answer each question numbly, he nods and pays careful attention behind the counter. He’s got a lovely sort of face, one that you feel like you can lay your truths on, all angles. Are all agents these days also doubling as models? It’s just strange for someone who’s involved in a scary Hollywood type of job, where men in suits are supposed to be relentlessly intimidating.AKA, Sam gets ice-cream.Second-person outsider POV.





	

You wonder why they send another pair of investigators to speak with you. It’s not like you were there, when Davie died. It’s still such a miserable pang in your chest that the best option is to let your mind glaze over — thoughts are vicious and cruel, and you can’t start crying at work, because crying won’t pay bills. And it won’t bring him back. It’s easier to just pretend that you fall apart the moment your car door locks. Who cares if people driving sees you snot on yourself? They’ll only catch a passing glance at the sad person in the car. And then you’ll be out of their lives, thought of for only a moment.

 _Pull yourself together,_ you think. _What would Davie say if he saw this? Don’t be this way. Fight back._ The thought is interrupted when the tall one wanders over to see you. It steals your breath a little, because the man is tall and his eyes are soft, and for a moment you think of what you’ve lost. What you can’t get back. You rub a sore spot on your chest, wondering if the pain can permeate so much that it’s physical.

“Sorry if I’m bothering you.” He _is_ bothering you technically — you’re working and you’re sad, which are both horrible things to have together — but he seems sincere, and anyone who is sincere about Davie is okay with you. He also kind of… looks exhausted. Like, really, really exhausted, like he’s dead on his feet. Maybe he’s been having a lot of all-nighters as a — a what now? “I’m Collins, FBI. Could I ask you a few questions?”

Anything to help.

People say it looked like murder. Someone could have took him away from you. As you answer each question numbly, he nods and pays careful attention behind the counter. He’s got a lovely sort of face, one that you feel like you can lay your truths on, all angles. Are all agents these days also doubling as models? It’s just strange for someone who’s involved in a scary Hollywood type of job, where men in suits are supposed to be relentlessly intimidating.

It’s easy to act like a robot with the finer details at first. But by the time you’re actually on the topic of Davie’s family, your shoulders are hunched and the tears are threatening to slip away. “H-his family never… um. Saw eye-to-eye with him. They had a lot of issues.” You wipe at your eyes, and he nods, absorbing the information. “Even worse, his mom is… kind of a wack-job. She has a lot of religious stuff in her house. Like… not even just one religion. Used to push a lot of random stuff on him.”

Something in Agent Collin’s eyes flicker — a moment of realization. You hold your breath, heart thudding in your chest. “Does that… Does that help?”

The man smiles, nodding. He slips his notepad back into his pocket. It’s hot as _hell_ outside, and it’s a good thing you work in a place full of ice-cream behind the counter, because it at least makes the summers more bearable. He says, “It does help. And I’m sorry again for your loss. Rest assured, we’ll be doing everything we can for you and Davie.”

The agent glances back toward the other man, the one in a suit as well, with the short, spiked hair. The guy is on his phone, looking very focused where he sits. The booths are a little empty right now, but that’s how it is in a small town. You snap back into focus when you’re offered a card. “If you need anything,” Collins says, “If anything comes up regarding the case… just let us know.”

You nod. Hesitant, you smile thinly. Red-eyed, but smiling at least.

“You want a scoop? I’ll buy,” you say quickly, and he seems completely thrown off by the offer. It makes you wonder how often he’s actually given things, just for the hell of it. He seems more like the kind of person who expects himself to give to everyone else. Call it an educated hunch. “You look tired, is all. And it’s hot as balls out there. Here.”

You hold out a chocolate-dipped vanilla cone.

He laughs quietly, but it’s a pleasant sound.

“You sure?”

“Of course. It’s just… This was Davie’s favorite. Everyone should enjoy what he did. I know that’s super corny, but…” Agent Collins takes the cone, glancing between it and you. He seens kind of humbled that it’s him getting it. It’s just a cone, really. Just a cone. “You kind of seemed stressed. Outside. Um. I was watching. Sorry.”

He seems surprised by the admittance. “It’s been a tough few weeks. Federal stuff.”

You manage a grin. “Right, right. Me, too. All these ice-cream scooping feelings. Overwhelming.”

Giving you a long, assessing stare, his lips curl into a coy smile. “Right.”

Though, the look doesn’t last long. His eyes scan over your shoulder, and the pleasant expression melts into something despondent and blank. It’s sort of kind of scary to see it, and you have to look over your shoulder out of fear that maybe someone’s sneaking up on you or something. Like a ghost. Or a monster. Your mind is over-active.  When you glance back he’s rubbing a thumb against the inside of his palm, the one holding the cone. But the chocolate is sort of getting soft in the heat already.

You clear your throat, torn between anxious and concerned.

“Right. Uuh… but — it’s melting, so.”

You motion to the drip of ice-cream, and the man makes a funny little noise of surprise, moving his hand to catch the fleeing vanilla drop with his other hand. It’s a swift motion, as you pluck up some napkins and reach over to help him control the beast that is his cone. At least he’s back in reality there. “Sorry, I — thanks. Thank you.”

“Nah, it’s fine! It’s not my hand getting ice-cream on it. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, no, I’m okay. Sorry. Tough few weeks. Rough nights.” He clears his throat. “I should go give my partner the heads up, share notes. We’ll be around. Hang in there, okay? We’ll keep in touch if we can think of anything else that could help the case.”

You reply, “I’d like that, agent.”

He leaves with a short and polite goodbye, and you can see the two men retreat to a car that doesn’t at all look that official; looks kind of old, actually, like it belongs in a car show. Agent Collins takes a gigantic bite off the top of the ice-cream, pinching his eyes shut at the brain freeze he’s forced upon himself as he gives the other man the rest of the cone. The shorter one looks like he’s just won the lottery, and laughs, a happy mime beyond the thick store glass. Jeez. Were they even really agents? They look like a pair of dumb teenagers coming in for a triple-scoop to start the weekend. It’s good to see Collins’ face split into a grin, though. He’s got dimples. They’re nice.

They hop into the Impala, Collins bowing his head low to fit, and before they leave, you catch his eyes again and he throws you a small wave from out the window. You wipe at your eyes, waving back. And then you start cleaning the counter, shoulders lighter; everything is one step at a time. Get through this day. Just gotta get through it.

Keep on hanging in there.


End file.
